


Stinky Wall Boy

by nobody_is_typing



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Murder, Past Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobody_is_typing/pseuds/nobody_is_typing
Summary: Just some fics about Brahmsy! I'll update the tags as I add more stories
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	Stinky Wall Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the scenes with Cole but a few changes

You’re laying in Brahms’ bed, cuddling the cold porcelain figure as you attempt to keep your sobbing as quiet as possible. Despite them being all the way across the house and down two levels, you were so scared that they were going to hear you. So fucking terrified that they’d storm up the stairs and you’d once again be a victim to their anger, their lack of self-control, their violence.

“Brahms, I’m sorry.” You whimper. “I’m so so sorry.” Hugging him tighter, you press a kiss to his hair, unable to stop yourself from breaking down once more. “I’m scared, Brahms, please help me.” You fall asleep there, on top of the covers and holding the doll as you cry; chest aching and eyes dry as you take a final, heaving, breath before finally drifting off.

Not for long, though. 

“Y/N!” A scream has you jerking away, adrenaline coursing through your veins and terror jolting your senses into overdrive. 

The first thing you notice is that he’s gone. “Brahms? Brahms!” You’re frantic, throwing yourself off the bed and tearing at the sheets, searching the room until another scream catches your attention. 

“Y/N get the FUCK down here!” Taking one last look around the room, eyes welling with tears before you go flying down the stairs, flinging yourself around the corners with the help of the banister until you’re standing in the billiard room. 

“Give him back.”

“What?” They glare at you, snatching your arm and dragging you in front of the couch, pointing angrily at the blood smeared across the wall. “You think this is funny?”

“Give him back!” You shout, struggling against their grip while you beat their chest with your fists. “Give me Brahms!”

“The fucking doll?! Are you serious?!” They shove you, sending you crashing onto the pool table, the dense balls digging into your spine as your head hits the fabric. There! In the armchair in the corner, Brahms watches you. Gasping, you attempt to crawl towards him, crying out in pain as they yank you across the table, giving you rug burn all across your torso. “You think this is fucking funny? Do I fucking look like I’m fucking laughing?!” 

They get to him before you do, picking him up by his face and throwing him to the ground, bringing their foot down on his head as a white noise fills your ears. You watch, horrified and desperate, as pieces of Brahms scatter across the floor. Larger chunks slide across the wood while the smaller ones stay stuck in the rug, a fine powder fans out from the area of impact and makes you think of blood patterns at crime scenes. 

Falling from the table jolts you out of your transfixed state, your screams echoing in your ears as you gather the remnants of the doll into your arms and kneel beside the rubble of his face. “You don’t fuck with me, Y/N!” They shout, kicking a chunk of Brahms’ jaw before freezing. The walls shake, the lights flickering as the chandelier swings, the house is angry.

“I’m sorry, Brahmsy, I’m so sorry.” You call out, clutching the doll to your chest. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Your hands run along his back like you’re trying to soothe him, tears falling onto his jacket. Picture frames clatter to the floor as the wall seems to seethe. 

“What’s going on?!” They’re scared now, for the first time in your life you see them actually frightened, and it makes you feel good. The pounding stops behind the mirror and you both stare expectantly, they take a step forward to investigate.

The mirror explodes outwards, showering them in silver-backed shards and wood splinters as the fall to the floor, completely stunned. But your eyes are on the hole it left, the figure within. Long hands creep out of the void, careful of the jagged edges as they place themselves firmly on the wall. It’s a man, tall, dirty, and hairy. But you recognize that porcelain face anywhere. 

“Brahms?” Your voice is quiet, watching as he steps outside of the hole, tilting his head silently as he looks at you clutching the doll to your chest. “Brahms, please.” 

That’s when he moves, quickly raising his right arm and the cast iron hook high above his head before bringing it down over their face, shoving a knee into their chest as he beats them. Eventually, he throws his makeshift weapon to the side and uses his fists, the pure fury visible in his actions as he slams their head down against the wood until the sound it makes becomes wet and sticky. Finally, he snatches a piece of the doll, his doll, and jabs it up through their jaw; watching as they choke violently on their own blood before finally laying still. It’s quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room is his breath hitting the inside of his mask. “Brahms?” 

He whirls around, startling you into letting out a shriek as he stands. But he doesn’t move, simply stares at you, gauging your reaction. Inhaling deeply, you get to your feet, still clutching the doll to your chest. “I’m sorry, I tried-” You stop, taking the thing away from your chest and staring at the headless toy. What had you actually tried to do? You could have kicked them out, could have hit them as he had, could have run and hidden, could have locked yourself in your room. But you hadn’t. “I’m so sorry.” You’re crying again, out of shame this time, you’d let yourself become their victim again. You’d felt so strong when you got here but the moment they show up you’d let yourself be reduced to nothing... again. 

Brahms takes the doll, blood smearing across the cloth as he looks it over. Eventually, holding it limply at his side as he steps closer to you, looming over you with less than a foot of distance between his chest and your face. “Don’t cry, Y/N. It’s not your fault.” The voice is childish and sweet. You clench your eyes shut as another wave of tears makes your shoulders shake. 

“I should have taken better care of you, I’m sorry I let them in.” Raising your hands, the tips of your fingers brush against his sweater, visibly trembling against the fabric. He doesn’t move. Brahms smells like sweat and dust, it’s not pleasant, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s real, he’s an adult, he lives in the walls. He’s okay. He saved you. He protected you. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, oh so slowly, you wrap your arms around his waist. Feeling the strength underneath his clothes as he tenses before allowing you to hug him. 

“It’s okay, pretty Y/N, we all get frightened.” One huge hand comes up to rest on your lower back, pressing you closer. “But don’t worry, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

“Thank you, Brahms. You’ve been a very good boy today.” He brings his other hand up, the weight of the doll resting on you as he returns your hug, his mask nuzzling your hair as you try to calm yourself. “Now, I need to clean up but I’d like you to go upstairs and get a bath before we send you to bed.” Pulling away, you wipe your eyes before making eye contact, he has beautiful eyes. 

“I’ll help.” 

“I’d appreciate that very much.” He nods before turning around and easily slinging the corpse over his broad shoulder, not acknowledging the blood dripping down his back. Taking in another uneven breath, you begin to pick up the pieces of the doll, collecting them with the intention of putting it back together as best as you can. 

It’ll never be the same but maybe different can be just as good.


End file.
